


Math Problem Day

by Fiddles



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, POV Cecil (Welcome to Night Vale)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:14:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiddles/pseuds/Fiddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strange new day dawns over Night Vale, one riddled with Trigonometry and Mysterious Pink Squares of Unknown Origin or Purpose. Just a short story in episode form.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Math Problem Day

When life gives you lemons, snatch them from its unresisting hand with an inhuman speed and eat them whole. Devour their supple, yellow flesh angrily, with highly-acidic juices running down your frothing mouth and chest. Make sure life is too terrified to ever try that again. Welcome, to Night Vale.

Hello Night Vale. Today is, Math Problem Day. Today is the day in which we set all of our insecurities, responsibilities and emotions aside, in order to calculate function limits, solve mind-boggling Hyper Equations and see if Physics is a lie told by scientists to clumsily conceal the fact we’re really all part of a computer simulation. “Physics is definitely real” you’ll hear them say “It’s real I tell you” they’ll sputter “Look I can prove it to you, just take an object that-“ and then they’ll stop, silently staring at their fingers. “But it’s real” they’ll mumble “it’s reeeeeeeeaaaal”. Then they’ll scream, crying out in a cacophony of voices and transform into pixelated versions of themselves, before vanishing into a cloud of multi-coloured squares. Participation is mandatory and indefinite. Citizens who show signs of resistance -or signs of _thinking_ about resistance- will take part anyway, finding themselves trapped in a body they can no longer control; screaming silently, through wide, terrified, glassy stares.

The city council called a press conference this morning to announce that they’re lifting their ban on pens and writing utensils and that they suggest all citizens spend their entire day staying at home and quietly solving municipally-approved math exercises. “Definitely don’t go outside today, where a massive pink square of unknown origin or purpose has been spotted, hovering menacingly over our city” they said in unison, before adding “Nope, no reason to go out _at all_. And you’ll be so busy with all that Math you’d have to go through. Pink square? What pink square?? That’s just _craaaazy_ talk!”. The city council then winked at the gathered reporters and –as large, bat-like wings unfurled from their backs- flew off into the distance. Well Night Vale, this is already promising to be a fun and exciting event for youngsters and adults alike. A member of the Sherriff’s Secret Police is actually here in the studio with me and they would like me to assure listeners that the seemingly never-ending stacks of math problems under your bed are not that difficult to get through and that you should be able to solve them before they multiply through mitosis and flood your entire home, effectively smothering you to death. They would also like to warn you that solving any one of these exercises will cause it to spontaneously combust, so make sure to wear gloves and to not work near any flammable materials. And –oh. What’s this? Listeners, the officer in question just opened a blue, leather briefcase and placed it directly in front of my desk. It appears to contain several stacks of paper with- with complex questions concerning vague mathematical theorems and intricately-designed triangles! All arranged in a pattern that resembles what I think is supposed to be an avant-garde oil painting of a naked human brain, riddled with darts. Listeners, this all looks very advanced and I’m not sure if I can even begin to understand what it means, much less how to solve it in time. I might have to call Carlos for help with this one, as it has been some time since my last class on level 5 interpretative cryptography. Well, while I sit here with shaking pen in equally-shaking hand, hoping that Carlos hasn’t forgotten to charge his phone again, let’s listen to a pre-recorded word from our sponsors.

Their blank, pupil-less eyes shift uneasily, as they motion towards their writing utensils. You watch as they scribble furiously at leather-bound notebooks with yellowed pages and a smell that sticks to your tongue like hot glue. The sound of their pen scratching angrily against the musty, blood-stained paper fills you with a sense of impending doom. You glance to your left, struggling to break free from your restraints, but it is no use. Your wrists are bruised and bleeding, your clothes are wet with sweat and an incandescent liquid of unknown origin. You do not remember how long you have been here, but your hair feels much longer than it used to. A loud, echoing scream pierces your ears, as every single inch of your skin begins to crawl. Words fill the room, swirling around you like a tornado. They glimmer weakly, humming in a frequency no human ear should be able to perceive. An intricate, red insignia burns itself on your wrinkled forehead. You cry out in agony, the searing pain blurring your vision, until you pass out from the shock. It is night. You are lying on your bed, breathing heavily as you grip tightly at your chest. It was all a dream, you tell yourself, nothing more than a figment of your sleep-deprived mind. Yet, as you reach up to your forehead, you can feel an aberration in the pattern of your skin. "YOU ARE ONE OF US NOW" booms a voice inside your head, as bloody tears stream down your cheekbones. "YOU ARE ONE OF US" it repeats "AND THERE IS NO WAY FOR YOU TO ESCAPE".

Night Vale Library. When a writer looks at you, you become immortal. When a Librarian looks at you, you become a monster.

This has been a word from our sponsors.

 

Well Listeners, I called Carlos and he said that the multiplying stacks of math exercises are not at all what they seem to be. Apparently, his lab has also been filled with countless geometry conundrums and brainteasers in abstract quantum tunneling formulas, but he’s managed to study them without their numbers getting too out of hand. Carlos told me that the piles of A4 paper the Math problems where written on, are _not_ in fact A4 paper, but a strange paper-like, living organism that seems to occupy more dimensions than it should. After conducting several very complicated and scientific experiments, he concluded that if you turn any individual page _juuust_ the right way, you’ll be able to gaze into the precipice of another reality. He also mentioned that he wore protective goggles when he did that and anyone else attempting to do the same without the proper safety equipment will have their mind rent asunder by the impossibility of what they would witness. Sooo, maybe _don’t_ do that.

I asked Carlos if he could help me solve the problems before I chocked on the ever-growing, non-paper and he suggested that I drench everything in ink. After all, who is to say that the symbols we foolishly perceive as language and logic and ideas aren’t mere inkblots on the pale processed flesh of a dead tree? So I did just that and then they lit up like the midnight sky. Oh it was _beautiful_ Listeners. Watching all those colours stream and intertwine with each other, as a high-pitched shrieking punctured my left eardrum. Oh it was simply magical. Reports are coming in from all over the city that Night Vale citizens are doing the same: spilling all the ink they can find and waiting for the fires to die down and their ears to stop bleeding. _I’m_ still bleeding very visibly and haven’t quite regained my hearing, so I can’t really know if the words coming from my mouth are actually words. I have however been producing sound waves -with my mouth, vocal cords, diaphragm, and lungs- in patterns that my phone seems to register as human speech. So, I’m guessing that I am in fact talking in a comprehensive language and not merely howling uncontrollably at my microphone. But then again, who is to say what language is and what it is not? Why should voices be segregated into different groups based on the meaning we project on them, or the act of failing to do so? Why do we discriminate against some frequencies and pitches of speech, but not others? Why speak at all? How is a growl any different than “hello” or “goodbye” or even “I have come about your mother Tom”? At the end of the day, Listeners, is a rabid beast’s snarling and scratching any different from the omniscience of an aged, distant god, standing at the moonlight edge of an emerald cliff? If not then who are we? Who can we be? How long until we no longer are?

 

An update now on the pink square hovering menacingly over our city. Larry Leroy, out of the edge of town, texted me just now, saying that the pink square has **moved**. Oh and, by the way, there’s a massive pink square hovering menacingly over our city that the city council doesn’t want us talking, knowing, or thinking about. I forgot to mention that. Sorry. Anyway, Larry says that the pink square started rotating -slowly at first- but soon broke into a full-on “spin-extravaganza”. He also added that he could just about hear a violin rendition of Que Sera Sera playing in the distance, but then the blood-glitches on his text got too big for me to read any further. The Sherriff’s Secret Police released a statement, in the form of sending wave after wave of rocket-launching, black helicopters _to gently direct_ the pink square out of Night Vale airspace. After much struggle, whereupon both the missiles and the helicopters apparently got absorbed into the pink square’s being, the square itself announced –by way of manipulating our thought patterns and entering our minds- that it will not stop until we’re all happy. Wait, sorry, dead. It will not stop until we’re all dead. Huh, that’s an odd typo Listeners; the letters seemed to rearrange themselves for a second there. Weird. Anyway, it looks like there’s another unknown, cosmic deity threatening our lives and loved ones, toying with our fates before delivering the final blow of sweet, releasing death. All in all, a fairly standard Tuesday afternoon. So while our hearts still beat against our chest, desperately trying to break free of their unbearably-suffocating prisons, let’s take a quick look at traffic:

Somewhere out there, there is a woman. She is standing on an empty street, completely devoid of cars, bikes or any other similar means of transportation. The wind is howling through the rooftops and broken windows of the abandoned houses that surround her. She is the only one still left, but she is not alone. Her face is flushed and tired, bearing several scars –some recent some not. Her cheeks are wet from perspiration, her eyes are dark and sunken. She stares at the cool, black tar stretching out toward the horizon, as several small stains of blood dry around her bandaged shoulder. A gun sits discarded on the ground beside her, along with a small faded photo and a makeshift spade. She is cold and lonely, but she is not alone. She knows that. She is not afraid of the present company. A shadow darts around the corners of her eyes, accompanied by a rising animalistic growl. The woman leers at the building walls around her and picks up the gun and then the spade, before walking away. She leaves behind the small, faded photo. She will not be needing it after tonight. She will not be needing anything after tonight. Please make sure that your taillights are on at all times. This has been traffic.

More news now on the pink square, spinning rapidly over our city, reaching speeds that no physical object should be able to. The Sherriff’s Secret Police has released yet another statement, advising citizens to simply ignore the quiet hum of the spinning square, look past the twisting, blinding light emanating from its center and hope it goes away. “IGNORANCE IS PROTECTION” yelled the Sherriff’s deputy, gnawing at the bars of the station gates “AVERT YOUR EYES FROM THE PRESENT. FOCUS ONLY ON THE FUTURE UNTIL YOUR BURNING GAZE REDUCES IS TO _CINDERS._ THERE ARE **NO SQUARES** IN THIS WORLD.” This was accompanied by the usual scratching, screaming, wailing, sobbing, shredding and a strange green substance, slowly oozing from our shoes.

Well Listeners, from the looks of it, this promises to be a proud addition to the “List Of Things We Must Ignore And Accept As Normal Or Refuse And Face Dire _Dire_ Consequences”, including –but not limited to- Erasers, Cheese, Umlauts and of course the existence of this very list. I’m sure seasoned citizens will find that a massive, pink square –spinning at impossibly fast speeds- is going to prove a  real challenge to even their denial capabilities. Prizes will be distributed to the best deniers during the coming Winter Holidays and never again. **NEVER. Ne-** wait. Listeners, is that. Is that music? Please, tell me you can hear it too, the distant rising wave of violins, harps and- Oh my god! Listeners, I have just heard the blast of a large explosion coming from outside. I’m peering over my studio window right now. I can see… a massive wall of sand and dirt and beautiful, beautiful harmonic wind. The pink square appears to have coated the entire city with a barrier of surging, singing wind. The Sherriff’s Secret Police are currently trying to shatter the barrier by shouting and shooting at it with as much ferocity as they can muster, but their efforts are proving fruitless. The wind appears to be… digging? Probing the sands for- Oh god! Listeners! The ground has begun to shake, buildings are collapsing before my eyes like cardboard caricatures of human audacity. I don’t think this is one of the government’s scheduled earthquakes. No. No! Listeners, the very Earth has just erupted and boiling magma has spewed forth from within. There is now a fissure in front of the radio tower and it is swiftly moving towards the center of our town! Reports coming in from all over Night Vale that strange magma creatures are emerging from within the bowels of the splintered earth! Carlos has just texted me saying that he can hear distant, gurgling screams coming from beneath his lab and- Oh no! Listeners, I’ve just heard another explosion. I’m sorry but I must go! I must go and see if Carlos’ is ok, he has to be ok he can’t not be ok I can’t. I- I take you now to the weather. Oh god Carlos. Please be ok.

[[WEATHER]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGTkAVsrfg8)

 

It has stopped. Listeners the wind has died down, the sand has settled and the horrible, horrible music is finally over. The earth has stopped shaking -as if unsettled by a sudden shift in gravity- and after all the destruction that infernal pink square of unknown origin or purpose wrought to our city, after all the chaos and screaming and death, we are still here. Night Vale is still here and those of us who survived are standing silent in the cooling, split cement that used to be the ground. We are all grieving the loss of those not with us. But we are here, we are now and now is all that matters. Carlos is ok. He says his lab endured the hellish spasms of the quacking land with minimum damage and that it should all be fixed with little trouble. I tell him that I love him and he holds me, whispering to my ear that he knows. We are together Night Vale. You and I and Carlos, we are all together. The sky may burn in glaring pink and pulsing violet, but we are together. The wind may howl and scream and blind us with its treacherous gusts, but we are together! The very earth may shake and boom and groan and split into bleeding, jagged chunks of sentient red-hot stone **. BUT. WE. ARE. _TOGETHER_**. We will always be together Night Vale. Always.

Stay tuned next, for the sound of paper being torn up by hundreds and hundreds of mice. Goodnight Night Vale. Goodnight.

                                


End file.
